


Space

by ilcuoreardendo



Series: Imagine This (Supernatural Imagines) [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Acting Like Adults, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dirty Supernatural Imagines, Domestic Squabbles, F/M, Female Reader, POV Female Character, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Reader-Insert, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 15:53:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2778950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilcuoreardendo/pseuds/ilcuoreardendo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>You’ve known Dean Winchester for years. Your parents had often crossed paths, shared tricks of the hunting trade. You knew he had an almost unhealthy passion for pie, that he loved Led Zeppelin, that Sam was his weak point (and hurting him, as a couple of bullies had once proven, was the one way to make Dean come unhinged).</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>What you didn’t know was that the man was a closet cuddler.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Space

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the anon prompt: _I was wondering if you could write an imagine where you’ve just starting dating dean and he’s super needy (in the sense that he wants to hug you and cuddle you all the time) and you get annoyed and yell at him but then later you apologize and make up for it with some smut ;) thanks xo_
> 
> Originally posted at my [Tumblr](http://ilcuoreardendo-fic.tumblr.com).

* * *

 

You’ve known Dean Winchester for years. Your parents had often crossed paths, shared tricks of the hunting trade. You knew he had an almost unhealthy passion for pie, that he loved Led Zeppelin, that Sam was his weak point (and hurting him, as a couple of bullies had once proven, was the one way to make Dean come unhinged).

What you didn’t know was that the man was a closet cuddler.

When you woke up in bed with him four months ago, fully expecting to grab your panties, your dignity, and slip away before he woke, that expectation was quickly strangled in a tangle of warm, heavy limbs as Dean wrapped himself around you, pulling your head into the curve of his neck and sliding a leg between yours.

You let yourself linger there for a moment, enjoying the warmth of the body next to you, the strange feeling of security that came with being wrapped in someone else’s arms. But eventually it got to be too much. Too warm, too secure, nearly suffocating.

You ran your nails lightly over Dean’s ribs, watched as he twitched away from you, limbs loosening enough that you could roll out of the bed. When you glanced back, he was awake and watching you, eyes heavy lidded, mouth smirking.

"Morning, sweetheart."

Those two words eventually became a part of your morning ritual.

 

*~*~*~

Hunters don’t date. 

Not in the typical sense. The lifestyle tends to be too nomadic to support such traditions. If you were lucky, you might get a civilian to buy you dinner and a drink before you went back to his place for the evening (with plans of sneaking off before sunrise dancing in your head).

With another hunter, things were different. You and Dean teamed up. He normally hunted with his dad, but they, as Dean put it, were on a break from one another, something about John wanting Dean to get a taste of responsibility. (You secretly suspected there was a lot of shouting and probably not a small amount of whiskey involved in Dean taking the Impala and leaving. But you didn’t bring it up.)

Either way, John Winchester’s loss was your gain. You’d rarely hunted with partners, especially not partners you then fell into bed with. And there was something satisfying in having someone to scratch the itch that came with the adrenaline rush of a good hunt.

And waking up, some mornings, with Dean’s head between your legs was certainly a bonus at that.

It took about a month of this “regular thing” before the other shoe fell.

Dean’s closet-snuggling began to seep into daylight hours. There were little touches at first, as though anything more might frighten you off. Fingertips in the length of your hair as you made coffee in the kitchenette of your shared room; a hand against the small of your back and lips against your neck as you bent over newspaper articles and dusty books.

Between the intimacy of hunting together and waking up next to one another, it didn’t take long for the touches to expand, with Dean developing a habit of draping himself over you as you sat in front of your laptop or a newspaper, arms around your shoulders, lips pressed to your cheek as he asked you if you wanted anything from whatever store run he was planning to make.

And it was sweet, really. A whole new side to the hunter. But it wasn’t something you were used to. And when he did it as you were in the middle of research, it jarred you right out of your thoughts, leaving you discombobulated, cranky.

It was during one of those research sessions that you eventually snapped.

"Do you have to do that?"

Dean paused, pulled his hands away from your shoulders. “What?”

"Just…" You turned, looked up at him. "The touching. You’re hanging on me all the time. I need some space. Especially when I’m trying to figure out what’s munching on tourists."

Dean stood straight and quiet. You could see the tension in his jaw as he no doubt worked his teeth together. It was a mannerism you’d observed when you two were working with local authorities and Dean was trying his best not to say something that might get you thrown off the case, or worse, in jail.

After a moment, Dean let out a breath. “Space.” His voice was tight; he cleared his throat. “Uh, sure. I can give you some space.”

He left the bedroom. As you went back to your book, you could hear him rummaging around the small living area that was separated from the bedroom. A few moments later, you heard the hotel room door open and shut and then the distinct growl of the Impala’s engine.

"Goddamn it." You listened to the tires squeal out of the lot, listened until you could no longer hear the engine. Then you took a breath and got up, poking your head into the front room, not sure of what you might find.

Everything was as you left it. Your bag on the sofa, Dean’s on the floor, an array of cleaned weapons—yours and his—on the coffee table.

You released a heavy breath and then pulled out your phone, checking the time. Dean was probably on his way to a bar. You’d give him a little space of his own before trying to talk to him.

*~*~*~

_I’m sorry. This wasn’t quite what I meant about “space.” Come home?_

An hour and a half later, done with research, freshly showered and ready to talk, you stared at the text you’d just sent. Worrying your thumbnail with your teeth, you winced at the word “home.” Maybe you should’ve just said “come back?”

It was a long 10 minutes before the reply came.

_I’ll be there soon._

Soon was 15 minutes later. You sat on the bed, letting Dean come in at his own pace. If you’d learned anything about the man over the last few months, it was that cornering him wasn’t a good move. He tended to lash out. So you let him come to you.

You heard his keys hit the coffee table and a moment later, he stood in the bedroom doorway, shrugging off his leather jacket. A half smile was on his face, but you could read wariness underneath and it made your belly clench. He opened his mouth but you held up a hand.

"I didn’t mean to snap. I just—" You paused, searching. Being open with someone was an anathema to your nature. It wasn’t something you’d ever really had to do. One night stands didn’t exactly require a full revealing of your neuroses. You sighed. "I like that you touch me. That you want to touch me." And God that sounded stupid. "I like that you’re a cuddler."

Dean made a face. You’d seen it quite a few times before.  

"I know, I know. I need to find a new word. The point is: I like that I get to see that side of you. But Dean…I’m not used to it. In my family, hugs were for when you were nearly eaten by something big and scaly.”

The look on Dean’s face said he was well aware of that hug caveat.

“And you know how I am…I’m in my own head. I’m not used to sharing so much time and space with somebody else, and I just—”

"Hey," Dean said. "I get it. I do. God knows, I grew up with a brother who could do a great impression of an octopus, ‘specially when we had to share a bed. So I get the space thing. You say the word and you got it.”

“Okay. It doesn’t have to be a mile between us space, you know? Just maybe you in the next room until I’m done with whatever… _especially_ research.”

“Sure.” Dean stepped toward the bed and the look on his face made you sit up straighter. “But you’re done researching for now?”

“Yeah.”

“And any particular reason you’re wearing my shirt?”

You glanced down at the soft red and grey plaid. “I took a shower. And I need to do laundry…”

“Ah.” Dean said. Dean’s raised eyebrows said,  _I don’t believe you_.

“Also, I felt bad,” you admitted. “And I wasn’t sure if you would—“  You broke that train of thought. No need to mention that you’d worried he wouldn’t come back when you asked. “Wearing your shirt, it’s a bit like you’re touching me…even when you’re not here.”

“Oh, I like that. But I’m here, now, so…”

“Touch away.”

“You’re sure?” 

“ _Dean_.”

“Well, I don’t wanna overstep my—“ Dean stopped speaking as you grabbed his hand, guided it between your legs.The plaid button down was, in fact, the only thing you were wearing. And at the strange noise Dean made in the back of his throat, you were pretty sure he hadn’t expected that.

“ _Jesus,_  you’re warm.”  He crooked his finger, drew it along the lips of your pussy. “And slick. If this is what happens when you wear my shirts…”

“Maybe I’ll wear them more often,” you said, taking a step back and pulling him with you.

The two of you landed on the bed in a heap. Dean’s mouth found your neck, your lips. He smelled of cold, of leather, of lingering cigarette smoke and booze. The denim of his jeans was rough between your legs. You could feel the firm ridge of his erection through the fabric and it made you  _ache_.

“In a hurry?” Dean said, as you popped the fly on his jeans and yanked the panels apart, the metal teeth of the zipper sounding like fabric ripping.

“I need to fuck you.”

“Really?”

“Or you to fuck me,” you said, slipping your hands inside his pants and breathing out in a rush as your fingers met hot, silken skin.  _Thank you_ , God, he’d gone commando today. “I’m really not picky right now.”

His cock filled your hand and you slid it out of his jeans, mindful of the zipper teeth. You ran your thumb along the head, smearing the pre-cum gathered there.

Dean cursed, closed his eyes. “You…you do what you gotta do. Tell me how you want me.”

Grinning, you hooked your right leg around his left thigh and using hips and well-honed leverage, flipped the two of you over so you straddled him, your crotch sliding slickly over the blunt head of his cock. “This good?”

Dean’s response was to gather the labels of your shirt and tug. Buttons plinked off the wall and the bedside tables.

“Your shirt!” You couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped you, or the sigh that followed as Dean’s hands cupped your breasts, fingers skimming sharply over your nipples. 

“I’ll replace it,” he said, wrapping a hand around the nape of your neck, pulling you close to lick at your mouth. “Think you said something about fucking me? Or were you all talk? I wouldn’t be sur—  _Fuck_.”

Dean’s bravado fell away as you slid yourself once more over the blunt head of his cock, then angled your hips, taking him hard and swift. Your almost too sensitive clit bumped against his pelvis, sent an electric frisson up through your belly, your back.

Rocking up to a seated position, Dean’s hands clasped your hips, grip firm but still letting you set the pace, even as you alternated from fast to slow and back again, drawing an almost pained look from Dean as you felt him twitch inside you. 

“You’re trying to kill me.” His voice was brittle, laced with laughter. 

“No,” you gasped, giving your hips a little twist. “Just trying to make it good. It’s part of my apology, aft—after all.” You shuddered, losing your rhythm and finding it again.

“Sweetheart, I’m not gonna last.”

“S’okay,” you said, feeling that silvery, shivery feeling climbing up through your middle again, that sweet sharpness that surrounded your clit. “I’m not either.”

With a few more undulating movements of your hips, Dean lost it, fingers digging into your hips, mouth crying out your name as he came inside you.

The sudden increase of  _wet_ , the sound of his moan, the brush of his pubic hair against your clit and you let yourself go, squeezing tight around Dean and collapsing against him, your arms on the mattress, your forehead pressed to his mouth. 

“So,” Dean said, after a moment. “Space.”

“Sometimes.”

“Especially during research.”

“Mmhm.”

“ _Well_.” He drew his hands up your sides. “If my giving you space ends like this, I don’t think it’s gonna be a problem.”

 

 

 


End file.
